


Dark

by satin_doll



Series: Dark Company [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Nighttime rambles with Sherlock.





	Dark

He had always loved the dark. 

Nights when sleep was distant (many, many nights) he wandered the streets, a shadowy wraith in a long coat, often damp from fog or rain, travelling a prescribed route that twisted and turned through the streets and alleys of London. Always the same path and always the same destination, with stops along the way.

There were visits to people he knew, ones he had collected over the years, an odd assortment of misfits and outliers, all of whom he respected for various reasons. There was The Musician, a musical genius who hid in a dingy basement workshop, creating music and instruments that would have shocked and astounded the world - if they had ever been allowed the privilege of knowing about his work. There was Fizz, the electronics wizard who knew more about tech and mathematics than anyone alive and occasionally tried to teach the tiniest bit of what he knew. There was Leona, the Serbian refugee who fed him exquisite pastries and strong coffee in the closet-sized apartment above her shop, and plied him with tales of her adventures during the war - along with occasional bits of intelligence which he fed to Mycroft a spoonful at a time. 

So many people - artists, craftspeople, mechanics, smiths of various kinds, all of whom were wizards and geniuses, all of whom he had helped at one time or another, and all of whom were dedicated to him with fierce and protective loyalty. Most of them also loved the dark, waking to do their work when the frenetic daytime energy cooled to the furtive slippery energy of night. All of them were glad to open their doors to him no matter the hour, and they would give him whatever he asked, with no questions.

This night he stopped into a pub hidden down a narrow side street. It was open all night, though few knew that besides himself and a few other midnight ghosts who had (most probably nefarious) business with the pub owner. There was no better weapons dealer in all of London than Mr. Sheridan, no one who knew more about arms of every sort - and he adored Sherlock, possibly in a way that would make many men uncomfortable. 

There were two “customers” huddled together at the bar, whispering furtively. Sheridan sat at a table with a glass of whisky, holding his newspaper open in front of his face in a way that allowed him to keep an eye on both his customers at the bar and the doorway. When Sherlock drifted in, Sheridan lowered the paper and glowered his version of a welcome. He said nothing as Sherlock slid into the chair opposite, merely pushed his untouched glass of whisky across the table. Sherlock picked up the glass, downed the drink in a gulp and smiled.

“Knives?” Sherlock ruffled his hair, showering the edge of the table with a few drops of water that had clung to his curls.

Sheridan made a sound in his throat, which could have been a question or merely an acknowledgement that he had heard. After a minute of staring steadily into Sherlock’s eyes, he rose abruptly and disappeared through a door beside the bar. He returned moments later with a bundle under his arm. This bundle opened into a display of incredibly beautiful and deadly weapons on the table top. 

Sherlock leaned forward and swept his gaze across the display. He reached toward one slender knife with a carved bone haft, not touching, merely pointing with a finger. 

Sheridan grimaced, his version of a smile, and deftly slid the knife from its slot. He examined it briefly, caressing the haft with two fingers before gently grasping the blade and presenting the knife to Sherlock. 

Sherlock held the knife in one hand, testing the weight and balance, admiring the delicate carving. 

“How much?” 

The pub owner blinked rapidly, then cleared his throat. He searched Sherlock’s face again, his look softening into one more akin to fondness than anything else. Finally he shook his head, turned and disappeared once again through the doorway beside the bar. When he returned, he laid an intricately tooled leather sheath on the table, gently took the knife from Sherlock and placed it inside. He picked up the sheathed blade and in a theatrical gesture, brought it to his lips and kissed it. Then he presented it to Sherlock.

What passed between the two men as they stared into each other’s eyes was filled with a lifetime of caring, sadness, regret, acknowledgement, resignation. It was an exchange they had shared a number of times before, always with the same conclusion. 

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was soft, gentle, carrying the weight of the one who abandoned, of the one who perpetually danced away. 

“You’re sure?” 

Sheridan genuinely smiled this time, an expression that transformed his seamed, leathery face into the visage of a worn, extremely weary angel. He gave a short, sharp nod to Sherlock, then sat down again and picked up his newspaper. 

Their business was concluded. 

Sherlock rose and bowed, knowing Sheridan would see, picked up the knife and left. 

Just outside the door Sherlock ran his fingers over the sheath again before deftly slipping the knife into the pocket of his coat. It would make a fine gift.

*****

Sherlock stood in the darkness outside her flat, just another shadow in the waning hours of night before the city began stirring to wakefulness. He always ended his nighttime journeys here, staring up at her window. He was never sure whether he wanted her to wake and see him there or if he only needed to reassure himself that she existed somewhere behind that glass. But it was necessary that he end up here after his excursions. 

He fingered the lovely piece of work resting in his coat pocket, debated whether to break in and leave it lying on a table or perhaps by the bathroom sink. He smiled to himself at the thought of her finding it somewhere in her flat, as if it had appeared out of thin air. She would gasp in surprise, as she always did on finding one of his gifts, though the gifts were no longer much of a surprise anymore. He loved the picture he conjured of her smile, her fingers lightly dancing over the detailed and delicate work of the sheath, her initial intake of breath as she drew the blade out.

He loved the dark heart of little Molly Hooper. 

He had seen it so clearly that first day they met, hidden beneath her efforts to appear normal, her striving to quell the sudden rush of excitement when presented with the decidedly _not_ normal. Everyone accepted the surface appearance - the little lilting voice, the stammering, the frumpy attire - and wrote her off as Mousy Molly. 

But he saw. He knew. It was what he counted on all those years and he knew he could draw it out now whenever he chose. At first it took some effort. She had been adamant for so long about hiding it from people, about _belonging_ to the world of normalcy in spite of her choice of profession, in spite of her attraction to the dangerous and outre´. But now…

Now he drew it from her with little or no effort at all. It was their secret, part of their connection. He revelled in it. It excited him. 

One day, he would delve into that darkness inside her, reach in so deeply she would never get him out, and oh, _then_ …

Until then, they would play this game. They would toy with each other, play with their shared secret love of the dark. He would continue to give her gifts, relish the excitement of imagining her discovery of them, continue to pull the slightly off-kilter side of her to the surface. After all these years, they were close to the culmination of his efforts. So much had happened to them both. His heart pounded with anticipation at the thought of taking that last step.

But not quite yet. 

He made his way to the door of the building, picked the lock and let himself inside. 

The bathroom sink this time, he thought, and smiled in the dark. 

 

 


End file.
